


Tandem

by lavellanpls



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Concussions, F/M, Head Injury, Humor, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2018-02-06
Packaged: 2018-04-16 12:32:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4625475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavellanpls/pseuds/lavellanpls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the <a href="http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/13696.html?thread=52627584#t52627584">prompt:</a> <i>"Lavellan takes care of a vulnerable and badly injured Solas."</i></p><p>They work together like sword and shield.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Their battle dynamic was…unique, if not one Solas was entirely happy about. Lavellan seemed to enjoy it, at least. She’d come at her foes with all the nimble grace of a wolverine, and leave a trail of bodies in her wake. She moved through enemies like wildfire, laying waste to anyone too slow to outrun her reach. The girl was brutal. Merciless. A dread Dalish Reaver to haunt Venatori nightmares. And oh, did she take the damage for it.

It was high risk, but high reward. She turned chaos (and pain) wholly to her advantage—hitting her harder only made her angrier, and hitting her companions made her _vengeful_. A battle with Lavellan meant trying to survive an asteroid collision.

Dorian liked to make a very rude joke about Lavellan only looking so young because she bathed in the blood of her enemies on a weekly basis. In truth, half of the blood Solas scrubbed off of her at night was her own. Hurting her made her fight better, but it also _hurt her_.

She’d broken her arm at least twice. Too many of her fingers to keep track of, a wrist, three ribs, fractured her pelvis… Solas had managed to heal her back to somewhat-new after every break and sprain, but the repeated stress was taking an early toll on her body. She’d never admit it, but her wrist never quite stopped hurting. Sometimes it took her longer to write letters. She said nothing of it—of course he noticed right away.

She’d done something egregious to her spine long before Solas had gotten a hold of her, but there was little he could do to fix that. Old injuries were trickier; more nuanced. He was an exceptional healer, but even he had his limits. He could help with pain, but couldn’t roll back whatever damage she’d done. Sometimes she’d throw her arms around his neck in an embrace, and he’d pull her tight and lift her from the ground only to feel the vertebrae of her spine crack back into place.

She was fortunate Solas was as skilled as he was. He’d have been terrified to send her to Skyhold’s surgeon. Lavellan lost enough blood as it was; the last thing she needed was a prescription of _leeches_. It was miraculous enough he managed to patch her up with only a few new scars. (Much to her loud and vocal chagrin. Sweet as she looked, the little brute did _love_ her battle scars.)

And so they worked in tandem—Lilith would tear herself open tearing enemies down, and Solas would stitch her back together when a barrier wasn’t enough to protect her from the worst of it. While he didn’t particularly relish her methods, he couldn’t deny they worked. Could possibly be their only hope against Corypheus, in the end. He had everything but they had _Lavellan,_ and she would never stop. Couldn’t, not even if Solas personally asked. And there were times he did ask.

Quiet nights in the darkness of their tent, after the rest of the camp had long succumbed to sleep; he’d try to work out the horrid tangle of knots in her shoulders and _plead_. “You cannot do this forever. _Vhenan, please_ …”

And she’d lean back into him, look up with too-big amber eyes and a smile that made his very bones ache. “Come on, no more fatalism tonight. Tell me a story, yeah? Please?” And he would sigh, and pull her closer, and rattle off another tale of his explorations as she hummed contentedly against him. Lavellan was fierce and sweet and too often vexing, and she would never stop.

 

* * *

 

Her confidence would be her downfall. Solas was sure of it. Confidence in other people, confidence in some absent cosmic justice, but most of all confidence in her own ability to _survive_. They never should have ventured off alone. The region was volatile; hostile forces lurking ever-closer daily. That was the whole point of having a _party,_ so at least they’d be somewhat evenly matched when something inevitably tried to slaughter them.

But she’d wanted time alone with him. Stood on her toes to lean up and kiss him and said, “Let’s take a walk,” and how was he _supposed_ to respond to that? Of course he followed her—would follow her anywhere, which was a troubling thought in itself. Of course they left without alerting anyone else, absconding into the wilderness. And of course there were darkspawn.

It was always _something_.

Lavellan’s reflexes were fast—she tore through the first of them without taking a hit, and Solas managed to take out a good handful of archers while deflecting stray arrows with a well-placed barrier. For a second it looked as though they’d make it—axe and shield, working in practiced tandem. But then a fresh wave erupted from behind them, and the second abruptly ended.

Lilith was a firestorm but enough enemies at once could smother her; overwhelm from all sides and crush her out. She put herself in the center of chaos and hung on by a sliver of health, high risk with a high reward. But sometimes the risk was too high.

They were overrun. A crushing blow from a darkspawn hammer snapped her wrist backward, and Solas watched as she hit the ground screaming. She sent a screeching Hurlock flying back with a hard kick; clambered for her fallen axe with her working hand and glanced up just in time to meet his eyes.

He was too far to cover them both. Too entrenched in clawing darkspawn. He didn’t have to hear her to know what she was screaming. Could see the fury in her eyes; the frantic workings of her mouth. “Don’t you dare! _Don’t you fucking da-!_ ”

He cast a barrier over her the same instant a maul smashed into his skull and cut the world to black.


	2. Chapter 2

That son of a bitch. That absolute _motherfucker_. Lavellan screamed—a savage, blood-curdling _howl_. A Hurlock hammer came bearing down only to glance off a glittering magical barrier, and she used the opportunity to rip a red-glowing gauntleted hand straight through its blighted chest. They thought they knew wrath. She tore a rift open above them, rolled out of the way of a leaping monster and swung back with a shakily-gripped axe to sever its head from its shoulders. She made it to Solas just as the creature raised a hammer to strike again; planted herself between them and screamed vows of destruction.

Lilith would gladly reeducate them on the subject of wrath.

She ripped a flaming set of claws through its ribcage; felt her own strength drain with each furious slash. The Hurlock dropped before it ever even loosed its hammer. The mangled beast crumpled to the ground in a heap, and she was finally able to look back at Solas.

The blow had opened up a gash above his brow, spilling blood down half his face in a bright red river, but he was _alive_. He pushed himself up to one shaky knee, head cradled agonizingly in his hands. “ _Mana…ma halani…_ ”

Lavellan couldn’t swallow back the manic burst of laughter. She threw her arms around him before he could even fully stand. “Fuck me _sideways,_ ” she breathed, and it held the weight of a fervent prayer. “I thought I lost you there for a second.”

He shoved her back without looking up, blood seeping between his fingers. “ _Garas quenathra, da'mi?_ ”

She halted. “…Solas?”

He still didn’t look at her. Just cradled his bleeding skull and uttered a low warning. “ _Ga rahn. Ma emma harel_.”

Great. This, now. Lilith’s eyes narrowed. For a moment she almost considered asking another name. Almost. Instead she tried something new. She cocked her head, dug up a rusty accent she hadn’t exercised in ages. “ _Vegara, emma lath_.”

That seemed to snag something. He finally looked up, and she caught his eyes. “Solas?” she tested. “…are you alright?”

He blinked. Once. Twice. “Fine. Apologies. …I take it we won?” He glanced down at his bloody hand with a grimace. “…we _did_ win, yes?”

Lilith surveyed the scattered carnage around them with an uncertain frown. “Well. Sort of? Everyone’s dead, if that counts for anything.”

“Your wrist-”

“Your _head,_ ” she countered, but the smirk quickly died with a critical narrowing of her eyes. “Wait.” She steadied him with her good hand anchored atop his shoulder. “Look at me for a second.” He did, and she found herself staring into two unevenly wide-blown pupils. Uh oh. “I think you have a concussion,” she announced, and Solas pulled away with a huff.

“I do not have a concussion.”

She frowned. “Where are we right now?”

His response was…many things. He first looked at her with the most appalled expression of utter _offense,_ which quickly shifted to dignified outrage, then confusion, then a blank pause of realization, before a sudden onset of complete, wide-eyed horror. He settled on, “ _Fenedhis_.”

“I’ll say.”

He massaged an aching temple with a weary sigh. “I may have a concussion.” At least they were both in agreement there. He looked back up, and his eyes abruptly widened. “When were you _shot?_ ”

“When was I…?” She followed his horrified gaze down to a broken arrow end sticking from the hollow below her collarbone. “Oh. Shit. Oops?”

Solas let his head fall back into his hands with a groan. “ _Lasa ghilan_ …”

“Stop making exasperated comments in Elvish!”

“There is an _arrow_ in your _chest!_ ”

“You have a traumatic brain injury!” she countered. “That’s way worse!”

“I’m _fine,_ ” he hissed, but he’d already begun to waver on his feet. He let his back hit the tree behind him, and slid slowly to the ground. “…where are we, at present?”

Shit. Shit, shit, goddamn fucking _shit;_ this was the _opposite_ of how this was supposed to happen. Lilith could survive a literal avalanche, but she was no healer. “Being hard to kill” was not, in fact, a widely useful skill. “Stupid mage boyfriends,” she muttered, finally beginning to feel the throb of her snapped wrist. “Why do I keep doing this to myself…”

“I’m not sure if it merits pointing out,” Solas noted, “but there is an arrow in your chest.”

She sighed. “Thanks.”

They had no potions left between them, but she’d managed before with worse. Lilith had no shortage of experience patching herself up—scrapes, scratches, and most variety of bites. Occasionally a casual impalement. Grievous head injuries were a bit newer, but at least she stopped the bleeding with a torn strip of shirt and enough pressure. She could bind her aching wrist well enough with a quick makeshift splint, but broken bones were more Solas’ forte. And then there was that pesky arrow…

“Alright,” she admitted, “the shock’s starting to wear off now, and this is starting to hurt.” She poked helplessly at the splintered end. “Am I supposed to take it out, or leave it in?” When no reply came she looked back to Solas to find his eyes had slipped shut. _Uh oh._ “Hey. _Hey._ Stop dying.”

He shot up with a start. “I was not-”

“Where are we right now?”

He looked nonplussed. “Is this truly necessary?”

“Yes. Answer the question.”

And he looked at her, utterly baffled, and asked, “What question?”

Well, shit. Her wrist throbbed, but at least her legs still worked. She helped him up to lean unsteadily against her shoulder, and tucked in for the long walk back to camp.

“This was a terrible walk,” he announced, and this time it was _her_ turn to be needlessly combative in Elvish.

“ _Dhava ‘ma masa._ ”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"Mana…ma halani…”_ || "Stop/Wait...help..."  
>  _"Garas quenathra, da'mi? Ga rahn. Ma emma harel."_ || "Why have you come, little blade? Get away. You should fear me."  
>  _“Vegara, emma lath.”_ || "Return/Come back, (my) love."
> 
> But most importantly: _“Dhava ‘ma masa.”_ || "Kiss my ass."


	3. Chapter 3

Alright, fine. Maybe she’d grant him that one.

It was a terrible walk.

The throbbing in her wrist had upgraded to a stabbing pain all the way up to her shoulder, her muscles protesting the extended strain with each jostling movement, but she’d broken bones before. Had been shot before, even, if not necessarily in the same manner. (Normally whatever hit her didn’t _stay there_ , but she could adapt.) Whatever the damage, she was certain she’d taken worse. Solas, though…

The bleeding seemed to have finally stopped, but she was far more concerned about the way his sentences began slurring together, speech gradually dwindling to a dazed mumble as his head drooped lower onto her shoulder. Concern shifted into something decidedly more panicked when he asked, “Where are we going?”

“Camp,” she reminded, and noticed him slowing beside her. “Because _one of us_ is an irresponsible darkspawn fighter.”

“You?” he supplied.

Oh, that son of a- “Do you even remember what happened?”

“No,” he admitted, “but it was probably you.”

Amazing. Even concussed. She meant to bite back with something clever, but he stumbled, lost balance and nearly pulled them both to the ground. He muttered apologies, arm hooked tight around her shoulder for support as she helped steady him. “I think I may have a concussion.”

“I thought we’d established that?” He tried to pull away, and with a frown, she tugged him tighter. “Maybe just…let me do the walking for now.”

She was surprised when he actually conceded, sighed and leaned into her without argument or long, grandiose protest. “Yes. Maybe that’s a good idea.”

Well _that_ couldn’t be a good sign.

They’d wandered quite a ways from camp, but the return trip took far too long. They were racing the setting sun now, going as fast as battered bones allowed while Lavellan shouldered most of his weight. She tried to keep him talking, keep him _awake,_ but for once couldn’t seem to hold his attention. He mumbled something melancholy in Elven, but Lilith wasn’t even sure he was talking to her anymore. It had the cadence of a prayer.

“Stay with me,” she demanded. “We’re almost there…”

He didn’t seem to hear her. Didn’t seem entirely present. “You cannot die,” he murmured, and it was spoken like a vow. She wasn’t sure she liked it.

“You’re right,” she agreed. “Who’d seal all these pesky rifts, then?”

But he shook his head, still lost somewhere not-quite-here. “I’m not sure I would still want to save them. Not if I failed you, too.”

She nodded, but a coldness had settled into her bones that left her movements feeling mechanical. Stilted. “Focusing on being alive, remember? Let’s save any grim musings for _after_ one of us dies.”

“Not long, then?”

Of course. Even impaired, he still managed to be a sarcastic pain in her ass. _Ugh._ “You’re not dying, stupid. Or. Not permanently, anyway. Just stay awake and let me handle the rest.”

“ _I_ am not the one tempting death,” he said, and was somehow able to sound condescending even as he leaned against her for support. A talent, truly. “You think yourself invincible.”

“Only mostly,” she decided. “Besides, that’s what you’re there for, yeah? And coincidentally why I need you un-crushed. _Someone’s_ got to avenge my untimely death.”

He mumbled something that sounded offended before looking down and stating, “There is an arrow in your chest, by the way.”

She sighed. “Thanks.”

Her left knee began to ache, and she tried not to think about the possibility she’d somehow broken that, too. She never could keep track of battle injuries—Solas was usually the one to sit her down and point out new limps and sprains. To take her by the hand and force her to stay still. _“You won’t be any good dead,”_ he liked to remind her. A sentiment she found herself echoing.

Solas only grew heavier, until she was all but supporting them both on weary legs. She’d hoped his mind would return—even just enough to walk properly—but wherever his shaken brain took him was far from the present. Far from _her_. He drifted in and out of consciousness, jostled back awake each time by a steadily more frantic Inquisitor. She only made out snippets of speech—vague cryptic ramblings sprinkled intermittently between broken Elven, made exponentially worse by the frequent question, “Where are we going?”

She gave up trying to remind him after the fourth time.

“I need to tell you something,” he said, and the earnestness of it unnerved her. “Important. About me, Corypheus, all of this. I-”

Against a mountain of better judgment, she clapped a hand firmly over his mouth. “ _Oh_ no _._ We are not doing unconscious confessions right now. This is _not_ how that conversation goes down.” Stupid careless elfy son of a- “Damn it. Goddamn it. Of all the times, I swear… Just…put a pin in that, alright? Revisit that later.”

She let her hand drop and he dejectedly announced, “I am not who you think I am.”

“Yeah, well.” She shouldered him closer. “Who among us is?”

“You do not understa-”

“ _Stop,_ ” she ordered, and the sharpness of it silenced him. “One of these days you and I are going to have a long talk about…a lot of things. Maybe one of those things will be the distinct definition of, say, ‘you’ or ‘me.’ Today is not that day. I need you here for that. All of you. So just…” Her frustrated sigh bordered on a growl. “Just don’t die. Let’s focus on that for now, yeah?”

“Am I not going to remember this?”

She sighed. “Not as much as I need you to.”

“I think I may be concussed.”

“That’s an astute observation.”

It took nearly an hour to make it back to the others. They stumbled into camp a bloody mess, Lavellan all but carrying a semi-conscious elven apostate with a thoroughly busted head. The camp fell silent, aghast, and Lilith awkwardly waved a very obviously broken wrist. “Hey guys, could I get a hand?”

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> GUESS WHAT'S BACK  
> the return of head injury N°5

If Corypheus didn’t kill them first, Dorian was relatively certain Lilith would be the death of him. She came limping into camp hours after she’d disappeared, ragged form silhouetted by the glow of the setting sun, and Dorian could swear he felt his heartbeat skip. Lavellan looked like she’d lost a fight with a bear. Solas, he noted offhand, looked dead.

Apparently neither were true. A small comfort.

They properly set Lilith’s wrist, against very loud and colorful objections, but healing magic wasn’t necessarily Dorian’s strong suit, and their resources at camp were scarce. He could help, but they’d have to wait until they returned to Skyhold to have a proper healer look at it. (Or until Solas stopped being massively concussed—whichever came first.) At first no one was quite sure what to make of the arrow lodged in her chest, but she was assured that no, they could not just “leave it in there forever” and it was not simply “a part of her now.” Dorian marveled at the fact the damned thing missed her heart.

There was less they could do for Solas, meanwhile. Head injuries were tricky; took time and rest, more than anything. They gave him a couple potions and instructed Lavellan not to let him sleep until he’d regained _some_ semblance of awareness, but past that, they simply weren’t equipped to do much else. 

One of their stretched-thin field medics took on the daunting task of patching up Lilith’s arrow wound. It wasn’t as awful as Dorian had first gauged, but it was still bloody _awful_. He still wished they’d brought another mage.

“I could have specialized in anything,” he marveled, “and what do I study? Ah, magic for things that are _already dead!_ Yes, how very _useful!_ ”

“Hey,” Lilith comforted, and discreetly masked a wince. “It’s a good specialization. We have a lot of fun together.”

“There’s an _arrow_ in your _chest,_ and I’m not positive exactly how much of you it went through. I know a bit of healing magic, but I’m not… This is _not_ what I usually do.”

“It’s fine, we’ve got this,” she assured, but the best their medic could give was a hopeful sort of shrug.

“I mean, probably,” he offered.

Dorian wanted to die.

 He looked across the fire to Solas, presently getting the blood cleaned from his face, and gave a disapproving hum. “And where were _you_ for all this?”

“Wasting barriers on me,” Lilith answered for him. “Hence the massive head injury.”

“It’s a _minor_ head injury,” Dorian corrected. “And clearly not enough barriers.” His frown turned subtly sharper. “Apparently you need two mages on you at all times.”

And Solas, gloriously concussed, answered with a dazed sort of snicker, “That’s what she said.”

Lilith cackled so loud it startled the medic. Dorian just blinked. “…I’m _sorry?_ ”

“What?”

“Did you just…?”

“ _That’s my joke!_ ” Lilith howled. “Oh, you son of a bitch, you never laugh when I do it! I can’t _believe_ this.”

Solas only stared ahead, dazed, and again asked, “ _What?_ ”

“Perhaps you should knock him on the head more often,” Dorian decided. “I think I quite like him this way.”

While their poor medic did his damnedest to patch her up, Dorian stationed himself at Lilith’s side and half-heartedly attempted to clean the coagulated blood from her hair. A daunting task. He _tsked,_ disapproving. “You, my impulsive friend, have just used up eight of your nine lives.”

“I think that’s cats,” she informed. “Not elves.”

“Don’t test me. I’m not entirely sure you aren’t part cat at this point.” If one day her nails grew into claws, Dorian would not be at all surprised. “Look at you, you’re already dragging home half-dead things.”

“ _Hey._ He’s got a name, and he’s not half-dead. Maybe a quarter dead. A third dead, tops.” She hissed in a sharp breath at a particularly abrupt tug on her hair. “Is this necessary?”

“There is _darkspawn viscera_ in your _hair.”_

“…and?”

“ _No_.”

Across the fire, Solas winced at the sting of a cold washcloth and touched a hand to his bleeding temple, only to draw back and stare at the smear of red across his fingers. “How long have I been _bleeding_?”

Dorian ignored that. “Any chance you’d know what the best approach is for an arrow wound?”

“I was not hit by an arrow,” Solas informed, still squirming away from their medic’s attempts to help him.

“Yes, I know. Lilith was.” Dorian nodded to his otherwise occupied hands. “Hence me asking for assistance.”

Solas looked up to study Lilith with a critical stare, eyes abruptly widening. “…when were you _shot?_ ”

“Massive head injury,” Lilith stated. “Massive.”

Dorian found it hard to resist a scowl. “I hope he was worth it.”

“I didn’t jump in front of an arrow for him; we were surprise attacked by darkspawn.”

“Are you saying you wouldn’t jump in front of an arrow?”

“No, I definitely would, but I’d at least use an _arm_ or something.”

He glared.

“Don’t worry,” she happily reassured. “I’d jump in front of at least as many arrows for you.”

“I know you’re attempting to be comforting, but you’re failing.”

“I’d give up limbs for you. At _least_ a solid four fingers. As long as they weren’t thumbs.”

“Please don’t.”

“Inquisitor?” a medic called from across camp. He stood helplessly, needle in hand, while Solas staunchly tried to shove him away. “…what should I do here?”

“Solas,” she warned. “Let the man do his job. You need stitches.”

“I do not.”

“You do.”

“No,” he starkly informed.

“ _Yes_.”

“Yes,” he agreed.

“Yes.”

“Yes.”

Lilith leaned back in her seat to regard him with an unhappy glower. “You’re just repeating me,” she pointed out, and Solas slowed his nod to ponderously venture, “No?”

“What were we just talking about?”

“You.” He paused. “…me.”

“What were we _specifically_ talking about?”

“How you were shot with an arrow.”

Lilith turned back to Dorian, hands thrown up in exasperation. “Do you see what I have to work with here?”

The best Dorian could offer was a weak shrug. “To be fair, he does have a point.”

“ _You betrayer._ _No he does not_.”

Solas looked about as smug as one can look with crusted blood covering half their face. _“Thank you,”_ he said, but stalled entirely too long trying to finish that thought.

Oh, for Maker’s sake. Dorian was not paid enough for this nonsense. (Come to think of it, was he paid at _all?_ ) “…Dorian,” he gently supplied. “The name you’re looking for is _Dorian_.”

“Yes. I know.” The blank way Solas stared at him betrayed that no, he did not know. “Thank you.”

“Massive,” Lilith whispered.

Dorian couldn’t keep from rolling his eyes. “Oh, enough of that, you. Don’t think you’re off the hook for this. At least _he_ didn’t break any bones.”

“He broke his _brain!_ ”

And Solas answered, dreamy and faraway, “ _Vara u’em_.”

“ _Hey_.” Lilith snapped her fingers. “In Common, please. Don’t be rude.”

“ _Ahn?_ ”

“Speak in _Common_.”

“… _ahn?”_

_“Dirthas Common?”_ she tried instead, voice softening into that breathy Elven tone Dorian never quite could manage to imitate. _“Dirth ma, Solas.”_

He blinked, looking far more cross than he was allowed, and snapped out, “ _What?_ ”

Dorian quirked an eyebrow. “He gets awfully bilingual when he’s concussed, doesn’t he?”

“Concussed, tired, angry, bored, particularly excited—so, sort of always, I guess.”

Solas jerked back with a sharp hiss of an inhale and batted away their medic’s hand before the needle even pierced his skin. “ _Felasil.”_

The medic sat back with an exasperated scowl. “What’d he just call me? Is he insulting me?”

“No,” Lilith assured. “…not really.”

“He called you an idiot,” Dorian flatly informed.

_“Seriously?”_ The man shoved himself to his feet, hands raised in defeat. “You know what? Fine. Fix him yourself. I don’t get paid enough for this.”

A common theme of the evening, as it were.

He stalked off muttering curses under his breath while Lilith pinned Dorian with a scathing glare.

“What?” he innocently asked. “I won’t _lie_ to the man.”

Solas touched his bleeding brow, still mumbling hushed Elven, and looked up only to ask, “Have you been shot?”

“It’s fine,” Lilith assured. “I’ve got it.”

Their last remaining medic rushed to finish bandaging her shoulder as she stood, apparently having given up on the fruitless task of convincing her to rest. Dorian didn’t even bother. At least, he tried to reassure himself, she wasn’t actively bleeding. For the moment.

Thank the Maker for small miracles, he supposed.

Lilith swung by the wash basin to quickly scrub her hands—er, hand…her splinted wrist wasn’t exactly useable at the moment—and set herself before her blood-soaked wavering mage as if surveying a battlefield.

“Here,” she offered. “Sit back and get comfortable, because we’re about to get very well acquainted.” She swung her leg over and sat herself in his lap, legs straddling his hips, and turned his face to the side with her hand at his chin. “I’ve seen worse,” she decided after a cursory scan. “Shouldn’t take long.” She handed him a curved needle and twined ball of thread. “Okay, now hold this for me until I need it. I’m kind of working one-handed here.”

At first Solas looked vaguely offended. Then he glanced down at her splinted wrist. “…did you break your arm?”

“No. It just looks like this sometimes.”

“When did you manage to break your arm? How-” He cut himself short with a slow look of dawning horror. “I believe it is possible I have sustained a concussion.”

“You have got the king of all concussions, but I forgive you for forgetting that. Now. Hold this.” Her eyes narrowed in concentration, tip of her tongue peeking out the side of her mouth as she leaned in close to carefully push at split skin. Solas barely held back a curse.

“Are you entirely qualified to perform medical procedures?”

“I’ll blame that on the concussion, too.”

He batted her hand away when she pinched too hard at his skin. “Do you even know what you’re doing?”

Glaring, she played her hand over the side of his face and twisted him back to face her. “I’m making sure your _flesh_ is in the same place it was before you _split it open.”_ She turned his face back to her when his gaze began to wander, and pointed to the long scar down her cheek. “Otherwise you get _this_.”

“Freckles?” he asked dryly.

Lilith couldn’t help it—she cackled. “Smartass. Hold still…”

“That _hurts._ ”

“Good. I’ve got to make sure there’s nothing left in there.”

Another sharp dig into his flesh made him jerk back, exhaling a furious stream of Elven. “ _Stop.”_

“Do you want an abscess? Because not cleaning a _gaping head wound_ is how you get an abscess.”

“You are not a healer,” she heard him mumble under his breath. And oh, now _there_ was a joke.

“Solas,” she gently reminded, “if I couldn’t patch people up, do you think I’d still be alive right now?”

He opened his mouth to answer that, and instead looked down at her wrist and asked, “Did you break your arm?”

Typical.

Against a fresh wave of grumbled complaints, she began to carefully stitch. She rattled off questions while she worked, deft fingers making quick work of the gash. “Where are we right now?”

_“Camp,”_ he bit out.

“And where is that?”

That answer took a heavy beat longer. “Crestwood.”

“And what happened to you today?”

“You did, presumably.”

Amazing. Truly.

“You know,” Dorian couldn’t help but quip, “for such a wise, _learned_ mage, Solas, I’m surprised you couldn’t figure out a way to avoid this.”

Lilith didn’t even glance away from her work. “Dorian, you’ve almost died, like, eight times.”

“Well. You don’t have to be rude about it.”

It took commendably little time for her to finish, considering how _entirely_ unhelpful of a patient Solas was. Once satisfied, she climbed off him, offered her good hand, and pulled him to his feet only for him to immediately sink back down. “Solas,” she said with a decisive snap of her fingers, “focus. We’re standing up now.”

“I can stay here.”

“No, you’re going to go lie down. Up.”

“It’s fine,” he assured with a wave. “I can stay here.”

“You really can’t.”

“I am fine,” he repeated. Lilith had to catch him by the shoulder and jerk him back up when he started tipping back too far in his seat. “Fine.”

“Up.” She tugged him back to his feet, his arm pulled snug around her shoulder. They made it two whole steps before he slipped free and sunk to his knees on the ground.

“I can stay here,” he murmured, already dangerously tilting. “I am fine.”

Dorian was not at all surprised when he immediately fell flat onto his back.

Lilith stared down at her fallen mage with her hand planted firmly on her hip. “If you don’t want to cooperate I’ll just _carry_ you.”

And Solas must have been truly entrenched in some manner of deepest delirium, because he said the stupidest thing Dorian could recall ever hearing to date: “You cannot do that.”

_Truly,_ he thought. _A most impressive level of stupid._

Lilith knelt, one knee stationed next to his hip, the other between his legs; pulled his left leg up to hook her right arm under his thigh, ear against his hip, and rolled clean over him and onto her knees with him draped over her shoulders.

Dorian politely clapped. Solas, meanwhile, made a noise somewhere between a gasp and a strangled shout. Lilith rose to one knee, then two; pushed herself to her feet, dizzy apostate still slung over her shoulders, and breathed a satisfied huff. “Still got it.”

Somehow Solas looked even more upset than he’d been when she’d dragged him into camp. “What are you- ! How- ? _What?_ ” It probably would have been rather frightening, if she wasn’t so short. In truth the ground was not all that far away. There were a lot of questions Solas could ask, but he settled on a dazed, “Why are you so _strong?_ ”

“So I can punch harder, obviously.”

He wanted to argue. She rather had him there, though. “You will _hurt_ your _back_.”

“Solas. I hate to be the one to break this to you, but you are not the heaviest thing I’ve carried.”

“What does that even _mean?_ ”

Really, just…the _stupidest_. Dorian waved the pair away with a dismissive flutter of his hand. “Go on, then; take your mage to bed.”

Lilith sealed a hand over Solas’ mouth just as he opened it to respond. “Don’t you even,” she warned. “That’s my joke and you _know it_.”

Dorian watched as she marched them both all the way to their tent across camp, Solas still blearily complaining all the while. He heard them even as they disappeared from sight—an irate, dazed declaration: “ _You cannot do this_.”

“I can,” Lilith argued. “I am. It’s happening.”

“ _No_.”

“Yes.”

“ _Lilith. Put me down_.”

Dorian heard the cheerful echo of her voice as she answered, blithely, “Nah.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dat [ranger roll](https://youtu.be/KPrATJ-u5Rg?t=5m1s) tho
> 
> _"Vara u’em."_ || "Leave me alone."  
>  _"Ahn?"_ || "What?"  
>  _"Dirthas Common?"_ || "Do you speak Common?"
> 
> your comments all mean the absolute world to me and I adore them all so stupidly much oh my god  
> thank you i love you mwah


	5. Chapter 5

Carrying Solas back to bed was…actually a lot easier than Lilith thought it’d be. Blood loss made for a pretty effective sedative, as it were. She dropped him flat on his bedroll with only the barest mumbling of complaints. He stared up at the tent above, head spinning, and said only, “You are too short.”

“Solas, we have talked about this—my center of gravity is lower.”

“You-” He paused when he lifted his head, eyes troubled. “Did you break your arm?”

“Oh my god.”

“…whose blood is this?”

“ _Oh my god_.”

He took a deep breath, hands over his eyes. Re-centered. ( _Recalibrated_.) “It is _possible_ I have suffered a minor concussion, yes—but in my defense, _‘whose blood is this?’_ is always a fair question to ask regardless of context, and that is _inarguable_.”

And, well. She’d give it to him, he kind of had her there. “It’s mostly yours,” she said. “If it makes you feel better, though, most of it was from your head.”

“How would that possibly, in any context, for any reason, make me feel better?”

“Heads injuries always bleed a lot; your blood vessels are closer to the skin there. So it’s, y’know. Better.”

“…if it is ‘mostly’ mine, then who does the rest belong to?”

“I mean. Maybe a _little_ of mine.”

“ _Because you were shot_.” He announced it with the slow-dawning glee of a man on the verge of a breakthrough, a holy moment of enlightenment. “ _By a darkspawn arrow_.”

She thought to argue but let the urge die. He’d forget in another minute, anyway.

With the herculean task of putting him to bed finished, she buckled down for step two. She tied her hair up and tried to remember how to say “strip” in archaic Elven.

She told him to undress—or maybe to unmask, Elven vocabulary wasn’t really the clearest thing to map. She might have told him to unpeel. Regardless of the verbage, he clearly understood the intention, and gladly ignored it.

It took far too long to undress him, a feat Lilith could normally accomplish in under a minute with the use of both hands. Limited now only to one, she did her best to awkwardly tug at his breeches while he made no attempt to help at all. She sat up with an exhausted huff, non-injured hand firmly on her hip. “Look, I’m going to need a little effort on your end here.”

“You do not,” he stated matter-of-factly. “I am fine.”

“You’re covered in blood.”

“It is fine,” he assured, and Lilith couldn’t sigh loud enough.

“ _No,_ it is not. We share this tent; you’re not passing out next to me looking like that.”

“It is fine,” he repeated, and gave a languid wave that did nothing to make her feel better. “Go to sleep.”

_“You are not sleeping like that.”_

Solas mumbled something jumbled in Elven, eyes slipping shut, and Lilith was left alone to wrestle his clothes off one-handed. It was the second hardest she’d ever had to work to get him naked, and with the least amount of payoff. She sat astride his hips, good hand laid flat atop his chest, and leaned down to stare directly into his eyes. “Hey. Solas.”

“Mm.”

“Hey. Hey. Solas. Hey.” She jostled his shoulder until he finally cracked open one eye.

“ _What?”_

“Where are you right now?”

“Suffering at your hand.”

“Close, but not a winner. Try again.”

“ _Camp,_ ” he reluctantly groaned. “…Crestwood.”

“What happened today?”

“ _Suffering.”_

She sat back on her heels, lips quirked in a thin crooked line. “While technically not wrong, that still wasn’t what I was looking for. Once more—what happened to you today?”

“I…” He screwed his eyes shut in a bitter scowl. “Does it matter?”

“Kind of, yeah.”

“A fight,” he tried.

“With?”

“Misfortune and circumstance.”

Goddamn it.

He looked back up at her, but this time the scowl turned to surprise. “…are you _bleeding?”_

She glanced down to notice a growing blood stain where she’d pulled open her stitches. “…no.”

“Why are you bleeding?”

“I just do that sometimes.”

“Were you shot?”

“Of course not. Who would have shot me?”

“You’re bleeding!”

“Nah.”

Eventually she did manage to get him fully undressed, despite his best efforts to make that task impossible. Re-dressing him, however, proved to be its own problem. He was— _somehow?_ —both too floppy and too squirmy at the same time. When she needed his cooperation he went full-on dead weight; when she needed him still he wouldn’t stop wriggling away.

“ _Fine,_ ” she finally gave in, hands thrown in the air. “Then just be naked!”

He mumbled sleepily back, “I’m not.”

Lilith was getting increasingly tired of playing nurse. Speaking of which. She glanced down at the still-growing blood stain soaking up through her shirt. Right—that pesky arrow thing.

“Okay,” she announced, words clearly enunciated. “I’m going to leave for two minutes. I just need to wash my hair and…everything else. But I am coming right back. So don’t go passing out on me just yet. We clear?”

“Clear,” he repeated.

Apparently it was not clear. After scrubbing away a caked-on layer of blood with the help of a very distressed Dorian (and getting her wound re-stitched with the help of an _even more distressed_ medic), she returned to find Solas 100% unconscious, sprawled awkwardly across both bedrolls, with his face smashed against the ground. Not necessarily a surprise, but a disappointment still.

“Oh,” she sweetly cooed. “You big, idiot baby.”

It took embarrassingly long to hook her arms under his and haul him back into a normal-ish position. His head kept falling back into an angle his bones surely would not appreciate tomorrow. The whole ordeal wouldn’t have been half as frustrating if he’d just keep his damn mouth shut, but even concussed, he was still Solas.

He _had_ to argue.

“You’re not supposed to sleep,” she huffed, trying to be mindful of her fresh stitches while simultaneously dragging her idiot apostate back into a sitting position.

“That is a myth,” he argued, still doing _absolutely nothing_ to help her. “A common misconception, but I assure you, patently untrue.”

“Not when your pupils still don’t match.”

He purposely kept his eyelids sealed shut. “My eyes are fine.”

“…he said, hoping she wouldn’t know it was a lie.”

“I am not lying.”

“What day is it?”

He was silent.

“Yeah,” she confirmed. “I thought so.”

He stared at up the pitched tent ceiling and for another slippery moment lost himself. _“Did we at least win?”_ he asked in slurred and drawling Elven. When no response came he looked to Lilith.

“Did you want me to answer in Common or Elven?”

“What?”

“You’re speaking Elven again.”

“Oh. …oh.”

“But yes, we won.”

“Yes. Of course. Apologies.” He blinked hard, but the effort brought the world no closer into focus. _“Have you already told me whose blood this is?”_

“ _I have. Many times_. _Stop asking.”_

“Fine,” he relented. “Forgotten.”

She looked up, frown tight. “Would you just pick a language and stick to it? Skipping back and forth is throwing me off. I can’t alternate languages that fast; you’re going to make me say something stupid.”

“…I’m sorry?”

“Speak Common or speak Elven,” she clarified. “I can’t switch between them that fast.”

“Yes. Of course.” This time he took a long, thoughtful pause before speaking, concentration poured into keeping track of his words. “You speak a surprisingly fair amount of Elven.”

“I’m Dalish.”

“No, but- Memorizing select words and phrases is not the same as actively _speaking.”_

She answered, in surprisingly fair Elven, something akin to _“Fuck you.”_

“You know what I _meant,”_ he defended, and let his gaze wander back to the tent’s ceiling. “What time is it?”

“Ten minutes past the last time you asked me that.”

“I believe I may be concussed.”

“You’d believe right.”

“Did we win?”

“We did.”

“Whose blood is this?”

“You have to stop.”

“ _Lilith,_ ” he stressed, slipping back into Elven just like he swore he wouldn’t. _“‘Whose blood is this?’ is always a fair question to ask.”_

“ _Stop,_ ” she snapped back. “ _You have a- head blood…container,_ uh. _Head…head strike…brain,_ um, _punch. Not a headache, a…_ Goddamn it! I told you to stop making me switch! What the fuck is the Elven word for ‘concussion’?”

“It’s- ” He paused. “It is, ah…”

“I told you to stop making me switch!”

Eyes already shut again, he snorted on a rude burst of laughter. “Brain punch.”

“I _told_ you!”

“Head blood container.”

Lilith switched back to Elven to furiously—and without nearly enough forethought _—_ spit out, _“Shut the fuck up your fool mouth, you terrific fucker of mothers.”_

Solas laughed so hard he fell back over again.

Ugh. _“You bottomless bag of assholes,”_ she swore, more accurately this time. _“I will slay you where you stand.”_

He managed to rouse himself back to consciousness with the slow spread of an awful smirk, but paused when he looked down. “…where are my clothes?”

“I really can’t deal with this right now.”

“Did you _undress_ me?”

“I’m doing the best I can, okay? You’re a terrible patient. Just…the _worst_.”

“It’s cold,” he complained.

“I’m doing the best I can!”

Finally—oh, gods, finally—he managed to pull himself together enough for her to wrestle on some clean clothes. She propped him into a somewhat sitting position with a rolled-up blanket stuffed behind his back. That was one thing accomplished, at least. She worked to change her own clothes while trying desperately not to move her broken wrist, and it…sort of worked. A quick swig of a healing potion at least dulled the ache. She’d have to have Solas heal it tomorrow. Or whenever the shit he decided to return to this plane of existence.

Soon, hopefully.

When she’d finally finished she crawled into his lap, arms draped over his shoulders, and pressed a chaste kiss to his jaw. “Hey. Wake up.”

He sighed, but only barely cracked one eye open. “How long are you planning on doing this?”

“Eternity, probably. This is your life now. Forever awake.” She pushed his eyelid up with her finger and brought her face unnervingly close to stare into his eye. “Now wake up.”

“ _I am awake,_ ” he probably meant to say, but it came out as more of a vaguely offended hum. In reply, Lilith pressed a kiss flat to his throat. “Want to try that again?”

“Awake,” he said, and that time he actually used his words. “ _Ma nuvenin_.”

She sat back with a narrowed glare. “You get awfully bilingual when you’re concussed.”

“What?”

“Don’t _what;_ you know what words mean.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She held his face still between her hands, eyes shining in an icy gleam. _“Dirthas Common?”_

“ _Dirthas Elven?”_  he blearily shot back, and followed it with a smug snicker. “Brain punch.”

“If you weren’t already a quarter dead I’d kill you.”

“Good,” he said. “Perhaps then I could finally sleep.”

Lilith wondered, bitterly, how much she actually needed him alive. Enough, she guessed. “Hey,” she prompted. “Tell me a story, yeah?”

Solas answered with a weary sigh. “You just want me to talk.”

“Always.”

He regarded her with a wary glare, but broke when she surged forward to catch his lips in a feather-light kiss. “Fine,” he relented. “Did you have a preference, or will any story do?”

“Anything.” She settled snug against him, head tucked into the curve of his neck. “You could lie, for all I care. I just want to hear you talk.”

“You want to hear a lie?” he offered. “You are not a reckless fighter. I do not worry about you at all.”

“Really? _Now?_ ”

“You said anything.”

She only snickered. “Oh, so _now_ your memory works.”

“I do not know whose blood this is,” he admitted. “And I expect I should.”

“You know, for once it’s mostly yours.”

“So you didn’t contribute?”

“Well. I said mostly.”

“Did you not get shot?”

“Alright, enough remembering for today.”

When he moved to argue she caught him by the chin and kissed him, slowly this time, and like a fool in love he melted. He rested his forehead against hers; murmured slurred strings of promises in Elven that she could only half-translate. This time when he drifted off to sleep she let him.

She nudged him awake every two hours to ensure he was still responsive, a safety measure he did not at all appreciate. He appreciated even _less_ the honey and yarrow salve she repeatedly applied to his still-slightly-bleeding head.

“ _Stop,_ ” he whined, twisting away with an irritated grumble. “Leave me _be._ ”

“Stop being such a baby; I’m helping you.”

He started rambling on with some furious, mumbled argument in Elven, and managed to fall asleep halfway through. Typical.

Carefully— _exhaustedly_ —she once again repositioned his fallen head back into a position that wouldn’t leave his neck aching in the morning. “Such an idiot,” she murmured under her breath. “The things I do for love…”

She guessed they were both idiots, in the end.

Lilith never did end up sleeping that night. Which was fine. Solas slept enough for the both of them, anyway. As the slow rise of dawn lightened the sky outside to a murky grey, Lilith looked down and sighed.

Her arrow wound was bleeding through her shirt again.

 

* * *

 

Solas awoke the next morning with a splitting headache and only a foggy recollection of the previous day’s events. When he rose groggily and pressed a hand to his aching temple, he was surprised to feel the bump of stitches. _That_ was certainly a surprise. He imagined he should have remembered receiving those. Face fallen wearily into his hands, he took a deep breath and wracked his mind for hazy details.

They’d gone for a walk. There were darkspawn. Lilith had been hurt. And he-

“Morning, my favorite elven disaster,” Lilith cheerily greeted as she slipped into their tent. “How’s your head?”

Solas once again touched his stitches. When had he…? “What happened?”

“I had my patience tested by some cruel deity with a wicked sense of humor, that’s what happened.”

Vivid, but unhelpful. His gaze finally drifted to the heap of bloody clothing at the end of his bedroll. “Whose blood- ?”

“Yours,” she answered preemptively. “Mostly.”

Ah. Right. He rubbed a palm against his eye with a tired sigh. “What happened?”

“A lot of things happened; where should I start at?”

“There were darkspawn,” he said. “And you had done something terrible.”

“Even concussed…” she muttered under her breath.

The concussion. Yes. Yes, it was coming back to him now. He remembered he’d been concussed. And… “Did you break your arm?”

“Wow, nothing gets past you, does it?”

Solas frowned. Someone had splinted her wrist, but even beneath the heavily wrapped bandages he could see the telltale swelling. He waved her nearer, suddenly caring far less about his mystery stitches. “Here,” he offered. “Allow me.”

Lilith dropped down before him, legs neatly folded, and allowed him to take her broken wrist in hand. A warm surge of healing magic made his fingers faintly glow, mana pouring into her bones in expertly directed waves. She was lucky he was skilled at this. “Are there any other egregious wounds I should know of, while I have you sitting still for once?”

“I might have been shot, a little bit.”

Solas looked up at her with dead-eyed exhaustion. “A _little_ shot?”

“They got the arrow out. It’s just kind of…oozing now. Just a little bit. Infinitesimally, really.”

 _Fenedhis_. “Give me a moment. I’ll take care of it after I finish with your wrist.”

It was not a “little bit,” by the way. It was a big bit. _A lot_ of bit. Solas was amazed it wasn’t more infected, with the clumsy approach taken to close it. Whichever inept medic was responsible for it needed to be fired, promptly. His hand went reflexively to the stitches at his brow, a much neater (and non-oozing) line. Hm. “Your handiwork, I take it?”

“None other.”

“Thank you,” he grudgingly said. It was horrid enough to awaken with missing memories and an aching skull—he was grateful not to have to deal with an abscess, as well.

…he supposed the both of them were lucky, then—it seemed they worked together quite well.

“So,” Lilith said while he worked to heal the hole in her shoulder, “anything you want to talk about? Anything specific?”

“Not presently. Why, is there something you wish to discuss?”

Apparently not the answer she was looking for. “No,” she answered, crestfallen. “There’s nothing.”

Solas…did not particularly care for that response. He tried to remember the night before. A walk, darkspawn, hurt, arrows… “Last night, did I say anything…?”

“Weird?” she finished. “Nothing weirder than usual, unfortunately. Although you did make a great joke. My joke, actually, but the execution was so flawless I can only applaud you.”

“Please not the elephant one.”

“No, but that one is great.” She leaned in to press a quick kiss to his cheek. “It was ‘That’s what she said,’ by the way.”

“It was not.”

“It was, and it was great.”

Solas uttered, with no small amount of horror, “ _No_.”

 


End file.
